


A Shot in the Dark

by amyoatmeal



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Canon, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Angst, Angst and Humor, Bickering, Bisexual Dean Winchester, Blood Kink, Blood and Gore, Body Horror, Canon Divergent, Corpse Desecration, Crowley and Dean Winchester's Summer of Love, Dark, Dark Comedy, Dark Dean Winchester, Darkfic, Dean Winchester's First Time With a Man, Dean in Shorts, Demon Dean Winchester, Demon!Dean, Drunk Dean Winchester, First Blade, Gay Crowley (Supernatural), Hellatus (Supernatural), Horror Comedy, Impala Conversations, Implied Castiel/Dean Winchester, Inappropriate Humor, M/M, Mark of Cain, Mindfuck, Murder, Non-Consensual Bondage, POV Dean Winchester, Rape, Rape/Non-con Elements, Ridiculous on purpose, Rimming, Rope Bondage, Rough Oral Sex, Slice of Life, Wingman Crowley, irreverent
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-05-09
Updated: 2018-05-15
Packaged: 2019-05-04 06:54:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 5
Words: 13,350
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14587428
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/amyoatmeal/pseuds/amyoatmeal
Summary: Dean’s a demon on the prowl and Crowley’s his glorified babysitter, but when Crowley finally convinces Dean to taste the rainbow, he finds that, above all else, his favorite color is red.Set sometime during the season 9 hellatus, this buddy comedy meets horror story details the strange course of events of one night along Dean and Crowley's vacation from hell.  And no, they don't have sex.





	1. Bark at the Moon

**Author's Note:**

> Hey, guys! I would like to start off by saying to heed the tag listings. While this fic has it's humorous bits, it is also a bit graphic and if you peer too deeply below the surface it's pretty dark. The idea for this came about because I felt the show wanted us to believe that Demon!Dean had done awful things, while mostly showing us Dean doing bad karaoke and drinking. There was a disconnect there on what we were shown and what was actually said and I wanted to play upon the irreverent humor of the show's writing layered on top of things that I think are more in-line with how a demon would behave. (Based on earlier seasons when they didn't watch cat videos and do fuck-all lol) Think of it as Shaun of the Dead meets Natural Born Killers. 
> 
> Might go back eventually and add more, but for now it's done. Also, I've never written smut let alone noncon so like if you feel so obliged, drop me a comment and let me know what you thought. (but please don't tell me it was hot or anything like that, it's not even supposed to be)
> 
> Beta'd by AngelwithacapitalA so I guess what I mean is if it sucks blame her because she didn't warn me. (lol)

“Yo, Ronnie!” Dean leans over the bartop, beckoning to what must be the washed-up loser of a Bret Michaels look-alike competition on the far side of the bar. And not the young, hot version either. Begrudgingly, the man makes his way over to Dean. He doesn’t even ask for an order before Dean’s shouting to him over the music anyway. “Two whiskeys.” After a beat, he adds, “And don’t look so happy to see me,” as the guy turns his back to grab a bottle down off the shelf.

The guy probably isn’t happy to see him, Dean muses to himself, but who cares? It’s a shitty biker bar just outside Dodge City that looks like a goth cowboy threw all up in it. The floors are sticky and the owner must have some weird hard-on for cow skull motifs and snakeskin, but the women are easy and they’re all usually wearing leather, which is definitely a perk. Dean’s been prowling around here every night this week due to its proximity to their motel room and this isn’t even his first trip over to the bar tonight, nor will it probably be his last at this rate. But Dean’s found sticking his dick in whatever thing that moves calms the mark between kills. Funny how that works. 

Ronnie is sliding the whiskey across the grimy bartop as Crowley appears behind Dean. “Barkeep, your fruitiest cocktail for yours truly,” he says, nodding his thanks as he takes the vinyl-studded stool next to Dean.

“Could you be any gayer? It’s tacky,” Dean states frankly, eyeing the whiskey in his glass and pointedly ignoring the fetishistic decor that’s been surrounding them for the past week.

The irony is not lost on Crowley. He stares blankly at Dean’s profile before amending, “Oh, and Ronald, put one of those little plastic pitchforks in it! You know how I like it!” He turns his head to shoot Dean a contented smirk. “Satisfied? Besides, what’s the phrase… ‘Takes one to know one’.”

“Right. Tell that to Trixie’s persqueeter after I wreck it.” He snorts while raising his chin to a woman in a leather vest across the bar. She’s got on trashy, blue eyeshadow and her dark hair is teased with a mess of aerosol hairspray. Simply put, she’s a hot mess, but she’s been eyeing Dean all week and a hole is a hole.

Crowley follows his gaze. “She seems charming, Dean. I do so love it when you reassert your demented version of rampant heterosexuality. Really does things to a girl.” 

Dean just rolls his eyes as he takes his first shot.

Ronnie throws down a small napkin and places some sort of fruity abomination on top of it, pitchfork and all, but he still doesn’t say anything. “I also love the strong, silent type,” Crowley says, as Ronnie quickly makes his way back to the other end of the counter. “Think I have a chance?,” he asks, before raising the tiny straw to his lips.

The song on the sound system switches over to the opening riff of Ozzy’s Shot in the Dark. The old Dean would probably cream his jeans over it. But to the new Dean? It’s just another fucking song. He’s still getting used to it all, the changes, but he never realized how freeing it could actually be to ditch his weird hangups. Well, besides the obvious one. The rest was just superfluous shit clogging up the pipes.

Crowley sets his drink down, contemplating something. “So,” he starts, finally making Dean turn his head to look at him. “Not that I’m not loving the quaint charm of this redneck bondage trap…” he nudges at the half-eaten bowl of free peanuts in front of them, “Or its urine soaked appetizers... but may I ask, why are we still here?”

“I know why I’m here. Better question is, why are you?” He throws back the second shot of whiskey with a hiss. “You don’t like it? There’s the door. I ain’t stoppin’ you.”

“It’s not my fault you need a sitter. And ah, yes, I forgot. Spreading your infernal herpes, or what have you. Careful ‘Little Dean’ doesn’t shrivel up and fall off.” He takes another sip of his drink.

Dean quirks an eyebrow. “You’re joking, right?” He thrusts his bared forearm towards Crowley’s face, displaying the Mark. “You’re the reason I have this fuckin’ thing in the first place!” It’s more for the emphasis, the red lighting is too dim to see much of anything, and they both know full well what it looks like regardless.

Crowley raises an eyebrow in mild distaste before pushing it away. “True as that may be, I’m not the reason you became an insufferable brat. It was your own brilliant decision-making that landed you in my lap. Always throwing yourself onto everyone’s blade like a bloody pincushion.”

Dean hunches over his drink and sets his jaw, willing his eyes to stay clear. He doesn’t want to talk about this shit. It happened, it’s done. He’s definitely not looking to go back either, so what’s the fucking point? Digging his thumbs into his temples, he attempts to stop the whole train of thought before it crashes and burns. What’s left in its place is a faint buzzing like a live-wire in the back of his skull. “You done?”

“Has anyone ever told you that you’d catch more flies with honey?” Crowley finishes his drink in a few pulls and is obnoxiously sucking the remnants through the straw, despite his glass being full of ice. He finally sets it down, much to Dean’s relief. “You look constipated. What’s got your silk panties in a twist?”

“Don’t play stupid, you know what.” 

Crowley hasn’t given Dean any deals to ‘take care of’ at all while they’ve been in this dead end town. He claims, ‘that’s just the way his calendar falls’ and honestly, it’s getting under Dean’s skin. No, it’s actually driving Dean up the fucking wall. That’s the only reason he lets Crowley hang around. Easy kills. The deals get taken care of and Dean gets to sate the Mark. Everybody wins. Well, besides the poor bastards making deals, but they have it coming anyway. They’re going to get bagged and tagged no matter what, better they get to look at Dean while kicking the bucket than get torn to fucking shreds by some invisible Cujo. Dean’s been there, too. He knows what it’s like. He can make it fast if he wants to; he thinks of it as a small mercy. Most of the time he prefers to make it slow.

In the meantime, he just needs something to fuck. Anything to make it so he doesn’t tear his own flesh off trying to take away the itch clawing itself deeper into his veins. It feels like a steady thrum coursing below the surface and the only way to alleviate it is through expulsion. An acting out of pure, unadulterated animalism paid in the form of warm bodily fluids. Whichever orifice they come from right now doesn’t matter. Dean’s not picky. 

He mindlessly scratches his nails into the Mark as he scopes the rest of the dimly lit bar. It’s a sea of leather clad men and the few women are actual dogs. Honestly, he’d been holding out on Trixie as a last resort. Now that it’s actually looking like one he’d rather find a better hole if he can help it. She probably has the clap or worse, she could be vajazzled or some shit. ‘Rhinestone Cowgirl’ only sounds good as a porn search. 

“Fuck, it’s like a goddamn sausage fest in here.”

“It never hurts to try new foods,” suggests Crowley.

Dean shoots him a perfunctory glare. Crowley’s been egging him to taste the rainbow since day one of this vacation from hell. 

“I don’t mean to offend your delicate sensibilities, but sometimes beggars can’t be choosers.”

Dean catches Ronnie’s attention again and taps his glass for a refill. “Yeah, okay. Well, you can lick my demonic taint. How’s that?” He tosses him a derisive smile.

“You know I’d lick more than that if you’d let me,” Crowley offers with a smirk.

“That so?” Dean takes a moment to consider. “Huh, no offense, but I think I’d rather die again. ‘Sides, you’re not my type.”

“Oh? You have a type? Correct me if I’m mistaken, but I thought you claimed to be the poster boy for toxically straight men?”

“Never said I was straight...” Dean counters, as Ronnie refills his drink. It earns him at least a reactionary furrowing of the guy’s eyebrows. At least his brain works, Dean thinks. He waits for Ronnie to leave again. “Just that I ain’t gay. Happy?” He swallows half his whiskey in one go. He’s a little drunk, he won’t lie to himself. That’s one of the more poetic aspects to this whole thing. He may lie to almost everyone else now, but he can’t lie to himself.

“No, not really,” he admits, “You just said I wasn’t your type. Dare I ask, what is your type, then?”

“Can’t win ‘em all. And I sure as shit ain’t tellin’ you that.” 

“And why not?”

“What, so you can go off and find yourself another meat suit for the night to try to lure me in? Yeah, not happenin’.”

Crowley chuckles. “I actually hadn’t thought of that, but I’ll keep that in mind.” 

The song changes again. It’s another Ozzy song for whatever reason. Bark at the Moon. This is like the sixth one in a row, but it could be worse. They could be playing Poison again and Dean would probably have to murder someone on principle if he had to listen to ‘Every Rose Has Its Thorn’ on repeat. They only have the one song, right?

“You know how I know this establishment is dreadful?”

Dean gives him a warning side-glance because no one’s forcing him to keep coming back. 

“We’ve been listening to this god awful music for the better part of a week and not once have they played ‘Mr. Crowley’.” He’s all, but pouting.

“Didn’t know you had a fave.”

Crowley looks calculating for a moment before he gives a slow nod. “Your taste is obviously terrible, but I can’t help thinking I can help with your most pressing… situation.”

“Fuck off, Crowley. I don’t need your help and I definitely don’t want any part of that,” he waves his hand, motioning to Crowley’s entire body, “On any part of me. Learn to take a hint.”

“Don’t flatter yourself, darling, I can handle a rejection... But, maybe let Daddy take care of the rest, so to speak.” Crowley’s been spontaneously peppering the Daddy thing into every other conversation just to spite him because if there’s no topic he loves to speculate about more, it’s the nature of Dean’s ‘deep-seated daddy issues’. It’s sure as hell not going to stick if Dean has anything to say about it. 

Dean visibly stiffens at the term, flaring his nostrils. His eyes flashing an inky shade of black. “Crowley, I swear to God, say it again and I’ll cut it off.” He’s not going to think about the irony of a demon swearing to God either.

“Oh, I do love a good game of ‘You Show Me Yours, I’ll Show You Mine’! Truly remarkable, but you might want to put it away in public.” He swivels in his seat to lean in closer to Dean. “Besides, Romeo, in order to lop it off you’d have to touch it and if it came to that I couldn’t promise I wouldn’t come all over ‘any part of you’.”

Dean outwardly cringes at the thought and blinks back the blackness. “O-kayy. And on that note, I’m gonna go hit it with Trixie. Don’t wait up.” He tosses back the rest of his whiskey before swiftly plunking the glass on the bartop. Hopping off the barstool, he weaves his way through the crowd of burly men, fringed leather, and conchos, making his way over to his prize for the night. That is, if life were like the most disappointing claw machine ever created.

She’s in the middle of a conversation when Dean sidles up next to her, but he doesn’t care. He’s wrapping an arm around her torso and pulling her in by the acid-wash clad hip in no time. Man, she really is trapped in the 80’s isn’t she? Whatever. He grinds the front of his jeans against her ass anyway, as he presses his face against her neck, ignoring the smell of Aqua-Net. She must think he’s someone else. With his lips ghosting over the shell of her ear, she finally notices.

“Excuse me, who the hell do you think you are?” 

“I’m the guy that’s gonna show you a good time.” He mouths behind her ear.

She struggles against his grip around her waist, his fingers entwining themselves in one of her belt loops.

“Oh, c’mon, baby,” he says wrapping his other arm around her, trying to pin her arms down by her sides, “I know you been watchin’ me all week.” She opens her mouth as if she’s about to protest. “Uh-uh, I noticed you noticin’ so don’t even try to tell me you weren’t.” He nuzzles his face back into her neck, grazing her skin with his teeth. “You’re the only bicycle in town right now and I wanna take you up on the ride.” He thrusts his hips against her again to get his point across, just in case the rest of it didn’t. 

Somehow, she manages to wriggle a thin arm free to grab at a half-full glass on the bar before she’s tossing the liquid contents back into Dean’s face. Without even enough time to blink, there’s a rough hand seizing him by the back of his shirt collar, yanking him along to the back entrance. 

“Hey, watch the shirt!” 

He’s thrown out onto the gravel of the rear parking lot with a skid, landing on his ass. Scrambling back onto his feet, he sees Ronnie holding the door with one hand, the other around the barrel of a shotgun. “I been waitin’ for a chance to throw your stupid ass out all week.” He cocks the barrel and aims for the pavement in front of Dean’s feet. To Dean’s surprise, he actually fucking fires the damn thing. It goes off with an ear-splitting bang that echoes around the parking lot, as Dean jumps back to avoid the shrapnel. 

“Woo-boy!” Dean pants out a condescending laugh, hands resting on his knees. “Well, I’ll be damned, Ronnie! I didn’t know you could talk!”

He levels the shotgun at Dean’s head as a threat, “I see you in this bar again and I won’t miss.” Letting the door slam shut behind him, Dean’s left alone to hear only the sound of the muffled guitar riffs as he starts shouting profanities and exuding his aggressions out on the door. “C’mon Ron! Don’t be jealous! Bet she’s loose enough to take us both at the same time!”

“Trouble in paradise?”

Dean tilts his head back to see Crowley standing under a flickering lamp-post on the edge of the parking lot with his hands in his pockets and a shit-eating grin plastered on his face. “Don’t you ever fuck off?” Haphazardly, he starts brushing off the ass of his jeans.

Crowley stands back a moment, appraising the view. “Ready to accept my help yet?” He steps closer into Dean’s space.

“I told y--,” he starts, but Crowley’s already talking over him.

“And I told you, I can take a rejection. Not interested in me? That’s fine, your loss, darling. The world is still turning. I would still like to help, so if you would put a pin in it, I think I could be of service to you.”

“Of service to me, huh? You lookin’ to make a deal? What’s in it for me?” Dean focuses his attention to brushing off the sand from his knees.

“There’s no deal. Think of it more as a gift.” 

Somehow, Dean doesn’t believe him. His face says as much, as he narrows his eyes and purses his lips. “Right.”

“What, can’t one demon help his coworker relieve the strains of workplace woes?”

A bitter laugh bites out of Dean’s throat. “That’s rich, considering your lack of deal’s is what got me into this mess.” Crowley doesn’t say anything to that and Dean considers his silence for a moment. Hell, maybe the asshole really does have a temporary band-aid. Fuck knows Dean doesn’t, besides going back into the bar and slaughtering everyone inside. The thrumming itch pulsing under his skin is only getting worse. Plus, now his dick is hard enough to cut diamonds without any place to stick it. God damn the vajazzler fad. 

Leaning a hand against the brick facade of the bar, he beckons Crowley to start talking. “Alright, I’ll bite. Let’s hear it.” 

“What, and spoil the surprise?”

Dean levels him with a glare. He could really do without the witty banter for at least the next month.

“What would you say to some free samples?”

Of course it’s this again. “You know, Crowley, I’m really starting to get concerned over just how badly you want a dick in my ass.” At the mere mention of the words, his cock twitches against the rough denim of his jeans. Naturally, he’s gone commando all week for easy access and that whole concept is really biting him in the balls right about now, so to speak. He rolls his neck and clenches a fist, cracking his knuckles to relieve some of the tension. Fuck, no more lying to himself, right? Exhaling a ragged breath he gives himself a pony shake before making a brash decision on the spot. “Yeah, fuck it, okay. But I ain’t fuckin’ anyone from in there, so where exactly do you propose we go?”

“I told you, it’s my gift to you. Don’t worry your perfectly-quaffed head about the details. Just go back to the room, relax, and come down from whatever the hell this is. I don’t need you acting on any other urges tonight.” Crowley’s head perks up as he hears the opening to Ozzy’s ‘Mr. Crowley’ play from within the bar. “Figures. Well, consider this my exit song then and do wait up for me,” he laments, as he vanishes into a wafting cloud of sulfuric, black smoke. 

Dean waves the smoke out of his face as he sets his sights on their motel room across the road.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> according to urban dictionary, Ronald is the name of a strong silent type and Trixie is another word for 'slut'. These are the kinds of things I learn AFTER writing that make me laugh indefinitely.


	2. Black Illusion

Crowley told him to relax, but easier said than done given the current circumstances. He may as well be wearing holes into the mystery-stained motel carpet by the amount of pacing he’s done since walking through the damn door a couple hours ago. Hell, he even tried the Magic Fingers a couple times, but that just fueled more blood into his already aching dick. He’s already drunk, so clearly alcohol won’t work either. One would think he’s some pushing-40-year-old virgin with the sheer amount of angst and energy radiating out of his bones. But that’s the thing, he does sort of feel like a born-again virgin waiting to get deflowered or some shit and that’s just unacceptable when he also feels like ripping someone apart. He wants to start throwing shit again. 

Dean forces himself into the flea-bitten upholstered chair in the corner of the room and turns the standing lamp beside it on with a quick pull, revealing to him again just how tacky the decor in here actually is. It’s not much different than the bar, honestly, but at least the dim, yellow light isn’t brothel red. He tries to ignore the way the cow skull over the bed feels like it’s watching him. Noticing the handle of the First Blade sticking out from underneath his pillow, he’s reminded how badly he wants to kill something, anything, go back across the road and slaughter the whole place, but he wills himself to ignore that too.

He’d tell himself that in a situation like this old Dean would talk to Sam, but in all good consciousness he can’t actually say that. Old Dean didn’t know how to use his fucking words on the best day and right now, Sam is the last person he wants to talk to. Which is exactly why when his phone vibrates in the pocket of his jeans he lets out a groan from somewhere deep inside himself. Fishing it out, sure enough, the screen says none other than ‘Sam’. The three dots after his name bounce as the call rings. Sam has probably called him upwards of 80 times in the last couple weeks since he bailed. He’s ignored every single one. Listened to a few of the desperate voicemails, though, for a good laugh. Sometimes he’d even tell Dean how much he and Cas missed him. Cas was a whole other can of worms entirely that Dean wasn’t even trying to open. He hasn’t gotten any calls from Cas, funnily enough, for someone that supposedly missed him too, but whatever. No harm, no foul because Dean doesn’t actually miss either of them. The incoming call is just about on it’s last ring. Dean contemplates for a moment, finger hovering over the answer button, before he decides, “Fuck it,” because he’s bored and crawling out of his skin and he figures Sam knowing he’s alive and doing okay without him will rub a little salt in the wound. He’s feeling petty, so what?

Dean hits the little, green button and holds the phone up to his ear. “Hiya, Sammy.”

“Dean?! Fuck, Dean, are you alright? I’ve been trying your cell for weeks! I thought you were dead-- well, again. What happened? Where are you? Do you need me to jack a car and come get you?”

“You’re adorable, Sammy, but I left you a note remember? Went out for a pack of smokes and all that.” Dean chuckles at his own lame joke.

He can hear Sam shift the phone on the other end of the line. “Dean, have you- are you drunk?”

“Ding, ding, ding! Always knew you were the smart one.”

“Let me come get you! I can bring you home!”

“You’re just really not gettin’ it, are you? It ever occur to you I chose to leave? I’m honestly just real tired of cleanin’ up all of your shit. Time to grow up and use the big boy potty, Sammy!” Dean pulls the phone away from his ear to check the length of the call. He’s drunk, not dumb. He knows Sam’s probably trying to trace it. Just as he does, he hears a light rapping at the motel room door.

“Oh, Dean!” Crowley sing-songs from the other side of the door. “Daddy has a little surprise for you!” He can’t even be bothered to roll his eyes at this point because his mind is on more pressing matters, like his dick pressing against his jeans.

“Is that Crowley?!”

“Shit, Sam, gotta go. Got a hot date, but this was fun. Let’s not do it again.” At least, Dean hopes Whoever is hot; it’s starting to matter less and less. He can hear Sam’s muffled protests as he kills the line. A few seconds longer and Sam could’ve nailed him. 

Dean tosses the phone, hearing it skid across the floor, as he crosses the room in a few quick strides. As he’s swinging the door open, he’s barking, “What fuckin’ took you so long?” before he’s greeted by the sight of Crowley and his anonymous, disheveled friend. His friend who’s clearly been hog-tied and has a burlap sack thrown over their head.

“What’s with the ropes?”

Crowley smirks at that. “I had to wrap your present, didn’t I?” He leans back, scanning back and forth down the motel strip, making sure it’s clear. “Mind letting us in? Feeling a bit exposed out here.” He gestures to the man writhing around and whimpering at his feet. Dean widens the door, stepping out of the way, as Crowley lugs the man in over the threshold. 

“Where’d you even get rope?” 

“The Impala, obviously. Is that important? Aren’t you going to unwrap your present?” He urges like he’s actually giving Dean a goddamn birthday gift.

It’s as good an explanation as any, he supposes. Hesitantly, Dean crouches down, loosening the ties of the burlap sack around the man’s neck, but he pauses. “You know, I never told you my type. What makes you think I’ll even like this one?”

Crowley chuckles. “Call it a shot in the dark.”

Pulling off the burlap, Dean furrows his brows. “What the fuck?” Not only had the man had a sack over his head, he’s also apparently been blind-folded and has a black ball gag firmly placed in his mouth. “Overkill, much? Where’d you get the fucking ball gag?”

“That’s personal, but what can I say? I’m a whore for theatrics. Besides, I thought you were into all the bondage paraphernalia given your choice in vacation spots.”

Dean quirks his lips thoughtfully. “Yeah, alright. This one got a name or what?”

“I would assume so.”

“Like you don’t know.” Dean pats down the pockets of the dude’s khaki pants, earning him some stifled cries in response. He finds his leather wallet in the left one and unfolds it, searching for some ID, but there doesn’t seem to be any. Based entirely on his pressed pants and Walmart-chic button-up alone he looks like some corporate stiff that got plucked off in his Sunday’s best. Who dresses like that on a Friday night?

“I really wish you wouldn’t do that. It’ll ruin my surprise.” Crowley fishes the man’s drivers license out of his pocket and flashes it to Dean. “Don’t worry, I kept the receipt, but if you really must know…” He sighs. “Dean, I’d like you to meet my dear friend, Ephraim.”

“Ephraim? The fuck kinda name is that?”

“A good, Christian one I imagine,” he answers with another chuckle.

Dean rolls his eyes, before looking to the contorted man on the motel floor. He’s quite literally ‘face down, ass up’. His face is pressed into the carpet and he’s got drool leaking out of the corners of his mouth where it’s stretched around the ball gag, but hell if he doesn’t have nice lips otherwise. They’re full and pink, if not slightly chapped. If Dean were a betting man, which he is, he’d bet they’d look great wrapped around his cock. He could even probably look past the snot drying under the guy’s pointed nose. 

The thought alone surges straight to Dean’s dick. He’s practically had this damn hard-on for hours now and he’s not trying to end up on a damn Viagra commercial. Arousal boiling away in his gut, he decides enough is enough and roughly unties the blindfold wrapped around the back of the man’s head to get a good look at him. After all, it would be kind of a shame if this guy ended up being a butterface. As the rag drops away to the floor, Dean is met with a wide pair of frantic, searching, blue eyes. An almost all-too-fucking-familiar blue. He might be drunk and horny as all hell, but he’s not out of it enough to be having fucking fever dreams.

“Jesus, Crowley, who the fuck is this?!” Dean clumsily pushes to his feet and makes for the license in Crowley’s hand. He tries to play keep away with it, but Dean manages to wrestle it free.

“Ah, well, I suppose the cat’s out of the bag,” quips Crowley, straightening his suit jacket.

Dean squints and blearily tries to scan the small print on the license in the dim room. Of which, apparently belongs to one, Ephraim Novak of Pontiac, Illinois. “Oh, you gotta be fuckin’ kidding me.”

“I know, I apologize,” placates Crowley. “I couldn’t get original flavor, so I hoped you could make do with an off-brand imitation.”

A few unchecked emotions pass through him, but more prominently one he knows really fucking well. Dean sets his jaw, narrowly glowering at Crowley.

“In your own eloquent words, a hole is a hole, if I’m not mistaken? And who knew Feathers had a younger and, in my opinion, more attractive look-alike... must be fate,” states Crowley, in that cocky, self-satisfied way he says almost everything. 

“Oh, yeah, must be,” utters Dean, lowly. 

“Fine. Perhaps, I may have already had him waiting in the wings. For insurance purposes, of course. You understand. This is just what one might call an added bonus.”

“‘Insurance purposes?’ You’re tellin’ me you didn’t just bring this poor bastard here to try’n spite me? Huh, sorry, but I’m not buyin’ it.”

“It’s only spite if it means something to you.” 

It doesn’t mean anything. A hole is just a fucking hole and screw anybody who says otherwise. Attachments are for fucking losers; they’ve never gotten him anywhere besides dead. And now? He can’t even die. How’s that for some fucked up irony? He can’t die, and all he wants to do is tear people apart.

Crowley sighs dramatically, with his hands still in his pockets, he shrugs. “Do you recall when you and your Moose tried to burn my bones?” He waits for Dean’s wary acknowledgment. “I’m still not 100% over that by the way, just as an aside, but I digress. Anyway, that made things between us a bit heated, for lack of a better word, and after everything that happened between Castiel and myself, I took it upon myself to do a little Googling. Next of kin. Or well, next of something. Choir boy would probably sacrifice himself for anything. Whom, I might add hasn’t even bothered to check in. So are you going to stand five feet apart all night because you’re not gay, or are you going to reap the fruits of my labor?” 

Dean’s eyebrows pull together before Crowley clarifies, “What? I Vine.” He ignores it. But he’s not wrong, it’s not a lie. 

Castiel. Cas. Not even one fucking call or text. No ‘hey how ya doin’’, not that it would even change anything. The one person he banked on hearing from aside from Sam too. And yet, apparently, they are both just so distraught over Dean’s choice to get the hell out. Cas is distraught. Well, fucking good. Cas is distraught and Dean wants it to hurt. Hurt like all the ways Cas has hurt him since the day he pulled Dean out of the goddamn pit. And look where that got him? He’s a fucking Knight of Hell for god sake. It’s stupid, but Dean needs this. Freud might have something to say about his abundant lack of super-ego, but he just can’t be bothered to give a fuck about how messed up this situation is. And hell, who is he to argue when an easy solution is presented right in front of him?

The man on the floor makes a whimpering gurgle, probably choking on his own saliva, as he attempts to turn himself onto his side. For a second, Dean forgot he was even there. He watches the guy’s pathetic attempt for a moment, fear residing in his blue eyes as he writhes about, before deciding with a hefty sigh to pull out a pocket knife. When he switches the blade open, the bound man’s muffled cries increase tenfold as he tries to back himself up and away from Dean’s approach, pinning himself against the TV console. Dean exasperatedly rolls his eyes. “Would you shuddup? I’m doin’ you a favor.” Dean cuts through the ropes that were contorting the man’s body, at least, but he leaves the ropes binding his limbs in place. It’s just a small mercy.

Motioning for Crowley, he says, “Help me get him on the bed.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In the bible, Ephraim is the name of the second son who received the honor that is supposed to be bestowed on the first born son. Another The More You Know moment learned after the fact.


	3. Let Me Hear You Scream

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> dead dove: do not eat

They bodily lift the guy onto Dean’s rumpled mattress; Dean hooking a crooked arm under one armpit as Crowley does the same on the other side. He squirms against their hold in muffled protest as Dean uses the spare rope to attach his bound wrists to the spindle of the wooden headboard. He’d probably be shouting if it weren’t for the gag; Dean can tell by his eyes, they look like their about ready to pop out of his skull. Dean wonders for a second if the guy knew why he was being abducted when Crowley showed up on his doorstep or wherever he was, but he doesn’t linger on it. It doesn’t matter. He’s too far gone at this point. He takes a moment to admire the view splayed out before him through hooded eyes, absently palming his aching cock through the rough denim. Ropes, ruffled clothing, heavy breathing. A dude could get lost in it.

Crowley moves towards the chair in the corner of the room and makes like he’s going to sit his ass down.

Dean’s half in a lust-blown daze before he notices. “The fuck you think you’re doin’?”

“Settling in for the show,” he says, voice as nonchalant as ever, “I thought that much was obvious…”

“Like hell you are!” Of course the asshole would try to pull something.

“As I recall, you said I couldn’t touch. You never mentioned anything about watching. Just exploiting the obvious loophole.”

“Well, consider this mentioning it.” Dean reaches towards his belt and begins fiddling with the buckle, pulling the leather strip free in one swift motion. Voyeurism is definitely not one of his kinks, of that he is sure. “Leave.”

“Are you sure? What if you need my help?”

Like Dean would actually need his help. Crowley is probably hoping he’ll get lost enough that he won’t notice when he tries to third wheel. “Thanks, but I think I can figure out how to put my dick in a hole. This ain’t my first rodeo.”

Crowley throws his hands up in mock surrender. “Well, it’s clear that I am not needed here.” He turns on his heel, like he’s heading for the door, but pauses just as he reaches Dean. In a cautionary tone, he warns, “Don’t do anything monumentally daft,” but then he’s gone.

Dean eyes the door a moment, half expecting Crowley to try to sneak back inside, but he doesn’t. It’s just Dean. Dean and this mess of a dude sprawled out on his bed. Somewhere, deep in his subconscious, he could acknowledge that revenge and spite and every bitter emotion he has in this one instant are misguided. Misplaced. This dude, Ephraim, doesn’t know him from a hole in the wall. Ephraim has never hurt him. But that’s the Old Dean talking. Old Dean was an idiot. New Dean can see things just as they really are. 

Turning his attention back to the bed, he runs a hand over his stubbled face and thinks to himself they’re both just too damn clothed. In that moment, Dean pulls his black t-shirt over his head with one swift tug, discarding it in a heap of clothes on the stained carpet that he tossed earlier in his frustrations. The man makes small noises, like a soft sob. Like giving up. But Dean hasn’t even started yet and he wants to bat him around like a cat a little before that happens. “My friend, Crowley, thinks you’re gonna show me the rainbow or some shit,” he starts, musing mostly to himself, as he slowly circles the bed, “Me, on the other hand? I’m not so sure.” He rakes his fingers through his hair as he mulls it over for a minute. He can do this, it’s not a big deal. He owes this to himself. It’s a gift. And it’s going to feel fucking amazing. 

Locking their gaze, Dean reaches down to his own fly as he slowly unzips his jeans and he’s reminded again exactly why going commando is the best thing in the fucking world as his straining cock bobs free from it’s confines. Sliding the rough denim over the smooth globes of his ass, he lets them pool around his ankles before stepping out of his pants and boots in one go. He’s still nervous, he’s willing to admit that to himself, but sex is sex and he can do this. He has to.

Crawling on top of the man on the bed, Dean hovers over him, admiring his tear-stained cheeks and his spit-slick lips. His eyes. It’s familiar. Dean’s had this fantasy a million times before. Cas’ blue eyes looking through him, seeing all of him, as they come together. It’s been the top bill in his spank bank most lonely nights for years, but these eyes aren’t seeing a goddamn thing. Just staring at him like he’s the kind of monster he’s supposed to hunt. Like he’s not good enough. He hates it. He hates that Cas is ruining even this, just like he ruins everything else. Dean’s grateful for the ball gag, though, and he’s grateful the guy’s ankles are bound, too, otherwise he’d have gotten a knee to the balls a couple times already. Straddling his anxious legs, Dean fully sits himself back onto the man’s knees. The rough khaki against his sensitive skin spurring him on, he lightly teases his fingers under the hem of the man’s button-up, testing the waters. Finding the skin there feels just as heated and smooth as anyone else’s he starts to feel a little bolder. Gathering the material in his fists, Dean rips the button-up open, tearing a few buttons off in the process, but leaving the smooth planes of the man’s torso and chest exposed. Taking in the sight, he spreads his palms flat against the man’s hard stomach, running them up and over the planes of his chest, before stroking the hairs trailing down to the base of his dick with his thumbs. 

Another whimper. Dean laughs. “Man, you’re tense! This is only going to hurt you more, unless you relax.” A fresh tear escapes the corner of the man’s eye, rolling down his cheek as he helplessly tries to move under Dean’s weight. “Don’t look so blue, baby. I’m gonna take care of you,” Dean purrs, undoing the fly on the man’s khakis. “And when I’m done, who knows? Maybe you’ll even get to see Jimmy.” The man’s eyes widen impossibly more as fresh noises struggle to be released from his throat.

Dean roughly tugs the khakis and boxers down to mid-thigh, exposing the man’s flaccid dick. “What do we have here? Looks like somebody can’t get it up.” Taking the man’s dick into his hand, Dean starts to jerk him slowly, but nothing is happening. He’s barely got a semi after a couple minutes of Dean’s ministrations. “You know, if I weren’t so confident in myself, I’d probably be a little hurt, man.” After a few more tugs and no progress, Dean eventually gives up.

Dean quirks his lips, thinking. “Can I tell you a secret?” He waits for an acknowledgment. When the man doesn’t answer, Dean slaps him in the balls. He groans, but gives a reluctant, shaky nod. “I’m a little nervous. You know, I always thought my first time doin’ this, I’d be the catcher, but I really think I’d rather get inside you.” He notices the man’s dick standing a little straighter. Dean chuckles, “I think somebody likes it rough,” before licking a stripe up the palm of his hand and laying another searing slap against his balls, enticing another cry from the man. Dean wishes he could hear them.

“Why don’t we take that gag out, huh? I want to hear you scream for me. Whaddya say?” The guy looks hesitant to reply again and frankly, that irks Dean off a little bit and he’s well past the point of patience. He roughly grips the man by the chin, fingernails digging into the flesh of his cheeks, and forces him to look into his eyes as they shift to black. “Let me put it to you this way, Frumpy, or whatever the fuck your name is… I don’t got any lube. So I’m either goin’ to take out the gag and you’re goin’ to let me stuff your mouth or I’m goin’ in dry. Your call.” The man is stock frozen still, except for his eyes. They pinch shut, almost painfully so, and, boy, is it subtle, but an almost imperceptible nod quakes through him under Dean’s bruising grip. “Atta boy,” affirms Dean, as he lightly taps his cheek in praise. Following orders. Just like Castiel would do.

Dean loosens the buckle of the leather strap, bringing it around to the front. “Try anything and I won’t even hesitate.” Sticking his fingers in the stretched corners of the man’s mouth, he removes the ball, coated thick with saliva. The man’s lips hang open, jaw relaxed. He’s panting. Warm, wet huffs of breath so close Dean can feel it against his skin. A glistening strand of spit connecting from the ball to those plush, pink lips prods Dean further. He tosses the gag to the ground. He can’t be bothered to care where it lands when those lips are begging to surround his cock. Scooting himself up, Dean lowers himself onto his bare chest, knees locking him in on either side. He teases a thumb over the swollen lips before pushing inside as a test. Just a hot, slick hole. No resistance. The bastard wouldn’t dare.

“You were made for this.” Dean grabs hold of his own cock stroking himself lightly, before teasing the head along the man’s pink lips. 

“Please,” pleads the man, voice breaking barely above a thready whisper. “Please, stop. You don’t have to do this.” His voice is far too soft and delicate if Dean is being real, and honestly, it’s really going to ruin his fantasy, but the warm puffs of air against the tip of his dick are making his gut boil with pure want.

“Oh, sweetheart,” condescends Dean, “You have no idea... and I don’t take requests.” Dean presses the tip of his leaking cock against the man’s plump bottom lip. “Open up for me.” It’s slow, shaky, reluctant like everything else, but the man does. Without much preamble, Dean slips his length inside the man’s mouth and is overcome by it. The heat, the softness, the wetness. He rolls his head back as his mouth drops open, letting out a low keen. This is what he’s been waiting for all night. He doesn’t think he’s ever felt this good getting his dick sucked in all his life; forget everything else. He begins to slowly roll his hips, shallowly fucking into the man’s mouth, trying to draw out this sensation for as long as humanly possible. A guttural groan rumbles out of his throat at the thought. “Knew those lips were made for me.” 

When he drops his chin to his chest, panting, Dean finds that the man’s eyes are still squeezed shut. “Gonna need you to open your eyes for me, buddy.” He waits, swatting the man on the side of the face. “C’mon, open up. Let me see those baby blues.” Nothing. “Okay, your call.” His hips rock faster, unrelentingly so, fucking harder into the man’s open mouth, uncaring for when he starts to gag involuntarily around Dean’s dick. The choked noises actually goad Dean into an even more brutal pace. For all intents and purposes, the man is asphyxiating before his cold, blue eyes unclench and fly open, tears leaking out from the corners, face turning a vibrant shade of violet. He’s trying to move his head, but Dean’s entwined both of his hands into the man’s dark tufts of hair, curling and tugging. Dean’s almost lost before he feels the sharp edge of incisors grazing the sensitive skin of his shaft. 

“Fuck!” Unceremoniously, Dean yanks his dick out of the man’s throat, leaving him to gasp and flounder like a fish for breath beneath him. After gaining some composure, Dean raises his hand and strikes down hard. It’s somewhere between a slap and a punch, Dean doesn’t really care, but it earns him a high-pitched cry. “C’mon, let me hear it. I want you to really mean it.” He does it again. A sob. But the second blow has left the man with a split lip. The sight of the trickling, red ooze ignites that fire burning low beneath the surface. That thrumming tapped through to the vein. He needs more. He needs it all, but he also needs to come.

“Please.” The man keeps repeating it, breathlessly. To Dean, to God. Who the fuck knows?

“No need to beg, I’m gonna give it to you.” 

A broken sound, imploring eyes. “Why are you doing this?”

“Because I can.” This is the New Dean, and New Dean takes what he wants.

Dean removes himself from the man’s chest. Shuffling down towards his feet, he begins to untie the ropes, before telling the man, “You better not fucking try anything again.” Black eyes, unwavering, a promising threat.

Pulling his pants off the rest of the way, Dean forcibly spreads the man’s legs apart, fingers digging into the flesh of his thighs, holding him down. He’s taking in the sight before him. A tight, puckered, virgin hole waiting to be filled by him and him alone. The wanton need drives him forward, face first. He laps a flat tongue over the hole a few times, listening to the soft, serenading pleas from above his head. He can twist this into wanting. He already is. The fuck-roughened throat begging him to be fucked. Cas begging before God, before Dean. He can take all of it, devour it, and spit it back out blackened by his touch alone. Defile whatever pure thing is left in the vessel forcibly pinned beneath him. He can do it. He has to. This is Dean. The New Dean. The very touch of him corrupts.

When Dean presses a pointed tongue into his hole, the man gasps and pulls at his binding, willing himself to get away from the probing invader. It doesn’t stop. Dean’s pressing his tongue against the rim, stretching him, devouring him. A hushed, whispered prayer from above escapes the man’s lips, words blurring together in their haste and repetition. He sounds like he’s speaking in tongues. “Our Father who art in Heaven,” yadda yadda yadda, “Lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from evil.” The Lord’s prayer.

Dean tries to contain himself, but it’s too much. He slides his tongue out, almost choking from trying to hold in his laughter. As he slips two dry fingers inside in its place, “God’s not here right now, can I take a message?” The pained cry it wrings from the man does not disappoint. “Now THAT is what I’m talkin’ about!” 

After a few prods, he must hit the man’s prostate because his body spasms around another frustrated scream. Dean’s sick of the foreplay. Enough is enough. He yanks his fingers out and touches himself with a few quick strokes, before lining up against the man’s inflamed, swollen entrance. As he does, the man is spastically kicking his free leg at Dean, but Dean isn't budging. It’s amusing at this point. Using both hands, he pins the man’s knees up by his shoulders and gives him a wicked, toothy grin. He pushes himself forward just that much more and pulls the man’s split lower lip into his mouth, suckling at the bloody tear in a bruising perversion of a kiss. 

Backing off, Dean licks a liberal amount of the blood-tinged saliva onto his palm, mixing it with his precum, and spreads it over his cock. Dropping a dangling line of spit onto the man’s waiting hole, he presses in, slowly at first, but then all at once. The tight, searing heat engulfing him makes him feel like he’s lying on the surface of the sun, yet he craves more. 

It’s fuelling him, making him chase the feeling into the pit of this man laid out before him. Dean’s pounding his hips into the heat. The obscene slapping of skin on skin, set to the unchained melody of the man’s broken screams. Pained wails turn to stifled moans when Dean’s unrelenting, selfish pace accidentally brushes over the man’s prostate again. Dean’s laying all his force into pinning his folded legs down against his chest and now that he knows where the sweet spot is he abuses it. 

“Knew you wanted it. Needy slut. Needed to get impaled on my cock.” He watches between them as he thrusts deeper, reveling in the way the man’s hole swallows him whole. It’s overwhelmingly too much. He’s getting close. “You’re gonna come on my cock alone.” His hold on the man’s legs falters as he throws himself forward, hands gripping the sheets, grasping for purchase. The man half-heartedly digs his heels into Dean’s ass in protest, but he finds he likes the pain anyway. In this state, Dean can almost pretend the man below him, avoiding his eyes is Cas. Cas taking it up the ass for him like the pathetic, subservient bitch that he is.

The force of his own thrusts are pushing the man further up the squeaky motel mattress. The top of his head thudding against the spindles with every jolt of Dean’s hips between his legs, breathlessly trying to form the words to his prayer. Begging, pleading him to stop or keep going, fuck if Dean knows. But Dean doesn’t care. He’s brutal, but he’s honest. 

Dean’s own hands are sliding up the mattress as well, when suddenly, the fingers of his clenched fist brush against something solid that sends that live-wire jolting down his spine. He’d almost forgotten about the Blade. He’s denied himself from it for too long and now, clutching it in his grip, he finds it feels like coming home. The heat is pooling low, tension building in his muscles. He needs this. He wants them to come together. 

“Say my name,” spits Dean, through gritted teeth.

One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six.

Dean’s grip tightens under the pillow. He’s so close, he can taste it. Following on pure, animalistic impulse, an unquenched bloodlust long needing to be filled, Dean presses the blade against the exposed skin of the man’s jugular. As a keening moan escapes his lips, he croaks, “Dean.” Voice rough and gravelled from screaming. 

It’s perfect, Dean thinks, before his blue eyes are flying wide, dribbles of cum ooze out of the man’s sad excuse for an erection, just before Dean carves into the artery. Hot, pulsing, sanguine blood spews forth from the pounding of the man’s pulse, coating Dean in red and mixing with his cum across his chest and stomach. A final ecstasy. A little death. Caught in the fleeting throes of an orgasm and exsanguination racking his body, the man convulses around Dean’s cock still buried deep inside him. The sight of red and wide, blue eyes, the gasping gurgles bubbling up through the steaming blood, the sounds of death. It’s all enough to push Dean over the edge. And he meets it at a marathon pace, hips stuttering out of rhythm, his own heavy moans leaving his lips, as he fills the man up with his hot seed. The slowed pour of the wound mocks him. He wants more.

Stubbornly, he plunges the Blade into the man’s gut. One. Two. Three times, before he gives up, falling onto the man’s gaping chest. A bloody pincushion. Some sort of mangled voodoo doll. 

Dean rubs his face in the still-warm blood and heavily pants out a breath of relief, closing his eyes as the corners of his mouth pull up dreamily; fully blissed-out, not ready to slip himself out yet. So, he’s not expecting it when Crowley reappears in the doorway just a few moments later.


	4. No More Tears

“What in bloody hell have you done!?” Crowley is planted at the door, eyebrows raised, expectantly waiting for a justifiable answer. 

He’d almost forgot about the limey son-of-a-bitch too. Dean groans and flips his head around lazily like a cat to meet Crowley’s gaze with a pinched brow. “The fuck’s it look like?” He lifts himself up on his forearms and removes himself with the wet squelch of blood and his own come coating his softened dick, among other… things. He wrinkles his nose, pulling the corners of his mouth, as he looks down between himself and the fresh corpse underneath him. “Guess I really scared the shit outta him.”

Crowley grimaces in disgust at the picture of gore Dean’s painting in front of him. “Cute, but do I look like a moron to you?” Dean’s assuming the question is rhetorical, but he answers with a ‘yes’ anyway just to spite him.

Circling around the unused bed, Crowley reaches down to the rumpled clothes on the carpet and uncovers what appears to be a black suit jacket, basically identical to the one he is presently wearing, minus the errant blood spatter. He holds it out to Dean, shaking it as he does. “You ruined my suit!”

“The one you’re wearing is literally the same thing... get over it. You’re like a fucking cartoon villain or some shit.” Dean reaches for the corner of Mushroom, or whatever’s, button-up shirt and uses it to wipe his dick clean.

“Like you know anything about style. A black t-shirt and a flannel is hardly revolutionary.” He pulls a handkerchief out of nowhere like some sort of goddamn magician and starts scrubbing at the blood stains. “If this doesn’t come out I’ll have your head on a pike! And don’t think you’re not paying for the dry-cleaning!”

Dean strains an eye roll. “God, do you ever hear yourself? You sound like a nagging wife.”

Crowley gives him a curt smile. “Yes, well, as the nagging wife, I would advise you to clean this bloody mess up! Of course, I told you not to be completely daft, but once again, you didn’t listen! And I’m certain I wasn’t the only guest that overheard your weird roleplay game. You know that’s what a ball gag is for, don’t you?”

“Yeah, thanks, I’ll remember that for the future.” Dean throws him a curt smile in return, but he’s not sure why he’s mentioning a ‘future’. He’s actually hoping to ditch his ass somewhere between here and North Dakota. 

Standing from the bed, he surveys the body and the blood and, well, just generally what a fucking mess he made. But he doesn’t regret it. He needed it. He feels good too. The pulsing thrum under his skin has calmed and he can breathe again without seeing red. Aside from the liquid pooling on the man’s abdomen and the residual blood coating Dean’s own chest and face, drying tacky against his skin. 

He turns to face Crowley, and hooks a thumb over his shoulder towards the bed. “You gonna help me clean this up or you just gonna stand there lookin’ ugly?”

“Oh, no, that’s not happening.”

Dean narrows his eyes. “Why not?” 

Gesturing to his ensemble, “This is a new suit, which I am now thankful I have, not that you’d notice. Besides, you’re like an untrained dog! I leave you alone for five minutes and you’ve already messed in the house. Maybe it’ll help you to learn if I rub your nose in it.”

“Is this a fuckin’ joke? If you won’t make this guy disappear, how the fuck do you think I’m supposed to clean up this mess?”

“That sounds like a personal problem. You should have thought of that before you went and broke your new toy.” 

That euphoric buzz from before is starting to wear off, mostly because of Crowley being a gigantic pissbaby, but there’s a few things Dean knows he does well. Killing, sex, drinking, and disposing of a goddamn body. So, fuck Crowley. He’s never needed Crowley’s help with any of those things before and he doesn’t need his help now. Well, except for going out to the car and getting the hacksaw and finding him some trash bags and duct tape. If Crowley doesn’t want to do this the easy way, then that’s just fine by Dean. He lists off the supplies he needs Crowley to get for him out of the trunk as he unties the ropes. He can’t exactly go parading himself around the parking lot covered in another guy’s blood, that defeats the whole purpose of this. 

Crowley tries to hang onto his last illusion of dominance, but eventually grumbles an overly sweet, “As you wish, darling,” before going out to the car.

Grabbing hold of the ankles, Dean pulls the body off the edge of the bed and it hits the carpet with a padded thud, making sure to drag it stab-side up. He backs his way into the cramped bathroom, running his hand absently along the wall in search of the light switch. When he flips it, the overhead light flickers on casting the room in a weird, fluorescent, sterile glow. The most unflattering kind of lighting, Dean notes absently, but it’s brighter than the sickly yellow of the bedroom. Under the harsh light, Dean can notice the subtle differences between this dude and Cas. His face is thinner, for one thing, but has softer angles. He seemed to have been about the same age Jimmy had been when the idiot said ‘yes’. Dean idly wonders what this guy must have thought happened to Jimmy, but it doesn’t really matter anymore. They’re both dead. Cas killed Jimmy, Dean killed whoever this was. How poetic. But in reality Cas killed this guy too, because the only reason this guy is dead is because of what Cas did. Cas fucked up. He made Crowley hunt this guy down. Cas made his choices and he threw this guy’s ass into the frying pan because of it. If Cas hadn’t possessed some poor bastard then this guy wouldn’t have even come into contact with anything supernatural. If Cas hadn’t pissed Dean off this guy wouldn’t have had to pay the price for him. This was Cas’ fault. Cas has killed a lot of people, what's one more?

Dean maneuvers the body over the edge of the bathtub by himself, which is a lot easier to do when the guy’s not flailing around like an octopus. Dropping him in, his head whacks the tiled wall of the bathroom with a loud thump. Head lolling lifelessly with his eyes glued open as they look blankly back at Dean standing naked over the tub. He’s had to look at this so many times before with Cas, but in the light of the bathroom he can obviously see this isn’t Cas. He doesn’t feel anything about this and honestly? It feels great not to feel anything at all. Like a thousand burdens have been lifted off his shoulders simultaneously. He can’t care. He doesn’t have the equipment to care about anything anymore.

Crowley appears in the doorway of the bathroom, casually tossing the supplies onto the floor in front of Dean’s feet with a clatter. Probably waiting for Dean to bend over to pick them up, knowing him. Dean gives him a pointed glare before squatting down to grab the hacksaw, not giving him the satisfaction. Hooking a leg over the tub, he climbs in and crouches down by the end opposite the drain.

“So, this is your plan, eh? Fillet the bastard in the bathtub? Talk about overkill...” Crowley’s leaning against the door frame looking none too impressed, but he didn’t want to assist so the hard way it is. 

“I can’t exactly drag a friggin’ corpse across the parking lot when half the people at the bar are comin’ and goin’, can I? And you won’t get your fuckin’ suit dirty, so you don’t get a fuckin’ say.” He makes to start in with the saw, but the eyes are still wide and glassy, watching him. It’s like one of those goddamn paintings that follows you around the room. He reaches over and fingers the eyelids closed before gathering his bearings. He’s disposed of bodies on a weekly basis since he was old enough to drag one, but in all his time he’s never really done it this way before. He’s never needed to somehow. But he figures, a corpse is a corpse and it has to get gone one way or another. So he starts to saw at the flesh of a shoulder, thinking that’s probably the easiest way to begin. And he continues on like that.

“I’ve got to be honest with you, Dean…” Crowley says eventually, scrunching his nose at the sound of sawing through bone, “I knew you were so far in the closet you were digging a hole to Hong Kong, but I thought you had a bit more finesse than this.” He nods to the mangled mess in the tub.

Dean pauses his sawing to wipe stray blood spatter from his upper lip with the back of his hand. The corner of his lip tugs up with a light chuckle, “What can I say? I panicked.”

“Really? Gay Panic? That's your excuse?” He considers it for a moment with a squint. “I guess I can’t say I’m surprised.”

As far as Dean’s concerned, he was justified. He’s been on his best behavior all week, hadn’t even killed anyone. It’s not his fault Crowley tossed him a bone, literally and figuratively. Speaking of bones, sawing through them takes a lot more out of a guy post-orgasm than Dean anticipated. He sits back against the tiled wall with an exhale, bare feet slipping on the viscous blood congealing on the bottom of the tub. Pacing himself seems like a bad idea, all things considered, but the idea of getting to the strawberry-filled center of this thing, is kind of turning him off this whole idea altogether. Plus, he doesn’t need an audience or any more commentary from the peanut gallery.

“Don’t you have anything else to do besides standing there being useless?”

Looking up from his phone, he looks towards the end of the bed next to the bathroom door. “You’re right. I should sit. I’ve had a very long week.”

Dean rolls his eyes. “Not what I meant, but okay.” Taking a deep breath, he decides he doesn’t really have much of a choice anymore considering all the other parts, besides the head, have all been bitten off like a gingerbread man. The hacksaw is half into the creme filling when the obnoxious ringtone of Dean’s phone is going off from wherever it landed earlier.

Dean groans, as Crowley tosses his head back and forth scanning for the phone. He sees the glowing screen under the desk. Crossing the room, he bends down to pick it up. “Were you expecting another call?” He squints down at the brightly lit screen. “From an offensively large Moose, perhaps?”

“Shit, Sam again? I already told him to fuck off earlier. Why’s that kid never learn?”

The call ends much to Dean’s relief and he continues on with the saw. Copious quantities of stagnant blood and oozing viscera pour out from the abdominal cavity with a heavy squelch over Dean’s feet. He can’t help, but feel he made more of a mess than when he started. And when the sound of his ringtone goes off again he sets his mouth into a thin line of annoyance. He’s knee deep in bodily fluids so he got what he wanted.

“Toss me the damn phone! This is getting fucking ridiculous.” 

So Crowley does, but Dean didn’t account for how slimy his hands were and the phone drops into the tangled mess of intestine. “Fuckin’ great.” He reaches down and fishes it out and does his best to wipe the ooze off onto his leg, before hitting the green button.

“Sam, I’m going to say this one more fucking time! Quit callin’ me! Or I swear I’ll come back and you won’t like what happens when I do.”

“Dean…” 

That’s all Dean needs to hear. For a second he’s speechless, until an unfiltered bark of laughter erupts from the back of his throat. “Oh, boy!” He comes down from his fit, wiping at his eyes. “Heya, Cas! Gotta say you got great timing.” Crowley looks up with narrowed eyes and he’s got some weirdass expression on his face. Dean might even consider it jealousy or something as equally fucked up.

“ _Dean_ ,” he repeats. “Where are you and why are you with Crowley? Has he done anything to you? Please, just tell me you’re safe.”

Dean ignores his questions. “You know, Cas, I was starting to think you were the one that up and died on me! Where you been all my life these past few weeks?” Cas doesn’t say anything immediately. “Startin’ to feel like you don’t care about me over here.”

He hears some shifting on the line. “You know that isn’t true, Dean! I know you spoke to Sam earlier and I've just gotten back to the bunker. I have been occupied in Heaven cleaning up the mess that Metatron left behind and I was out of range. Besides, I thought you were dead! When I received Sam’s message I came back immediately. Tell me where you are, Dean. Tell me what happened.”

Dean holds the phone away and notes the call time. He hangs up. Cas undoubtedly calls back. “Dean, stop playing these games!” His voice is a grating timbre through the static of the phone. “We are concerned about you. Sam and I have missed you. You have no idea how hard these past few weeks have been and we need to know you’re safe.”

“‘Sam and I, Sam and I.’ That’s bullshit and you know it, Cas. Hell, I know it! Sammy just wants someone around to wipe his ass and you just need to follow someone around. Find somebody else ‘cuz it sure as hell ain’t me anymore!” 

“What’s happened to you, Dean? What has Crowley done? We will fix it, _together_ , just come home.”

Dean really wants to repeat that ‘It’s not broken’ line, but he doesn’t. Dean hangs up again instead. Cas calls back.

“ _Dean, enough!_ ”

“Crowley hasn’t done anything! Unless you count letting me be who I want to be! Which is more than I can say for the two of you bastards. Why don’t you both go fuck yourselves? Better yet, why don’t you both go fuck each other? Take out some of that despair on each other and cut the ‘woe is me’ crap. I’m fine. Hell, I’m great!”

“No, Dean, you’re not. We both want to help you. We care about you.”

Dean is scratching at his head with the edge of the hacksaw as a laugh bubbles up in his throat again. “Hey, Cas, did you know that Jimmy had a brother?”

Cas seems thrown by the abrupt change in tone and conversation. He hesitates on the line too long before Dean ends the call again. And again he calls back.

“You didn’t answer my question,” says Dean with a mocking pout.

“Yes, of course... He is of my vessels blood line. His name is Ephraim and he is still in Pontiac, Illinois.” He still sounds confused.

“You’re partially right there, Cas, so I’ll give you some credit. But currently good ol’ Ephraim is in this bathtub with me lookin’ like the cafeteria trash on sloppy joe day.” Cas doesn’t say anything. “I really gotta get back to this, Cas. Burnin’ daylight over here. Well, night light? Whatever. It’s been real, buddy. I hope you and Sam use protection.” He hangs up for the last time before finally deciding to smash the thing against the edge of the sink.

“That was heartbreakingly beautiful, Dean. Five stars.”

“Fuck off.” 

He finishes up in the tub, bagging and duct taping up multiple trash bags as he does, as well as bagging up the motel bedding. It feels like it takes forever, but Dean doesn’t know because he smashed his phone. And Crowley’s been trying to think of witty quips regarding giving a more literal definition to the term ‘bloodbath’ and telling him Elizabeth Bathory would be proud, so Dean’s been ignoring him for what feels like an hour. He turns the shower head on hot to clean out the bottom of the tub and to haphazardly scrub himself clean too. Part of him wants to leave a little blood though. Like a souvenir or something for one of his firsts. 

He towels off quick and goes over to his duffle on the floor. In one of his tantrums, he threw most of his clothes across the room in that pile so he doesn’t really have anything clean, he finds. Digging around in what’s left he finds a black t-shirt and his pair of denim cut-offs with the frayed edges and what not. Dean figures they’ll have to do considering they’re the only thing right now without blood stains. He shimmies them up his legs and realizes without underpants he’s dangerously close to letting his pendulums swing, but air is good sometimes isn’t it?

Crowley makes some bizarre choked off noise while Dean’s pulling his shirt over his head. “What in god’s name are those?”

“Clean, that’s what. And shuddup, I love these fucking things.” He starts shoving the bloodied clothes into his duffle.

“Right, I forgot. You’re a style icon.”

Dean thinks he hears a weird clicking or whirring sound, but he doesn’t pay it much mind. “Damn straight.” Adding the First Blade, he zips up his bag and glances around the room trying to detect if he missed anything in his cleaning up. If there’s anything on the floor, no one would know. It was disgusting before he got here. He goes into the bathroom and tries to lift all the bags at once, quickly realizing the error of his ways. Rigor mortis is no joke, even if most of the blood went down the drain. “Help me carry these bags to the car.” It’s not even a question, just a demand at this point. Crowley can do something useful.

Crowley heaves a put-out sigh, and rolls his eyes, but he doesn’t deny Dean. Dean knows he won’t and he’s been using that to his advantage this whole time. Getting to his feet, he punches out a terse, “Fine,” as he walks over to lift some bags, but Dean has a childish grin on his face anyway from getting his way again.

As they open the door, trash in hand, they both freeze at the sight of a patrol car across the street in the bar parking lot.


	5. Flying High Again

“Fuck!” The smile is quickly wiped off his face as he slams the door shut.

“This is quite the unexpected hiccup.” 

Crowley seems almost amused and Dean wants to punch the smug look off his face. Dean shifts the water-stained curtain aside on the window and peers out between the Impala parked between themselves and the patrol car and then back to Crowley. This all could’ve been avoided if Crowley just zapped this problem away in the first place. Dean pointedly raises his eyebrows trying to silently communicate just how obvious the solution would seem, but Crowley just scoffs in his face. “What? Don’t look at me, I didn’t murder anyone.” Then he amends, “Well, not tonight, at least.”

Dean throws daggers with his eyes. “So, you’re really not going to help at all?” 

“I don’t see why I should. You didn’t listen to me.”

“Fine! Whatever!” He drops the trash bags to the floor and the contents slosh around like they’re filled with cherry jell-o or some shit. Glancing around the room, he tries to devise some sort of plan to get himself out of this room and away from Crowley. Despite being the one to slaughter this dude, it wouldn’t sit right with him to just leave the bags there. He still feels compelled to dump them. Maybe it’s just ingrained in him at this point.

There’s no window in the bathroom, so that escape plan is out. The only window in the room is one by the door that Dean keeps peering out of and every time he does the patrol car is still there. Sitting himself on the end of one of the beds, he bites his thumbs and can’t really think of any way that this doesn’t end with him getting royally boned. He’s supposed to be dead like, what? One hundred something times already? Same with being wanted by the cops. And now here he is with four different trash bags full of one guy and his only escape is parked next to a fucking cop car.

“You know,” Crowley starts, placing his bags down with a little more grace than Dean had, “I might be amenable to helping if you would just admit to yourself that you need me.”

Dean scoffs. “Yeah, well, sorry to break it to you, but I don’t.”

“That’s not the way I see it. Otherwise, you’d already be out the door, wouldn’t you? Just say the word and I’ll make it disappear.” 

Dean points his glare at the mystery stains, avoiding the expectant look on Crowley’s face he’s sure is there. He doesn’t need Crowley. He doesn’t need anyone. But he also has no fucking clue how to solve this riddle without the bastards help. He clings to his pride for all of five minutes before he releases the breath he was holding with a long-suffering groan. “Okay, you win!”

“What do I win?”

“I need you, okay?! I need your fuckin’ help! So, if you would just fuckin’ do it already, that would be fuckin’ great!” Dean will remember to punch himself in the face later for caving so quickly.

“That’s what I thought,” Crowley chides, with a stupid smirk on his face. “I’ll only be a moment.” He collects the bags making sure to hold them away from his suit and in two seconds he’s up in smoke, leaving Dean feeling bitter by himself under the orange glow casting in from the window.

He’s only sat sulking at his newly lost independence for what really feels like a moment, before Crowley is back with that same self-satisfied grin he was sporting earlier. “Now really, Dean. Was that so hard? Then again, I did enjoy the show, so I’m not complaining.” 

Dean rolls his eyes for what feels like the millionth time tonight. “Yeah, and what about the fuckin’ cop, Dickbreath?”

“Oh, Dean, stop flirting with me. I took care of him.” Dean looks decidedly skeptical. “Hello, King of Hell? No, but actually I didn’t have to. He drove away while I was running your errand. You didn’t notice?” 

He gets to his feet and pulls the veiled curtain aside again, revealing just the Impala and a few other motel guest’s cars. And now Dean feels even more stupid. He can’t help the next groan. “Let’s just fuckin’ go!” Gathering up his duffle again, he heads out the door with Crowley clinging on his trail. He’ll ask where he ditched the body later.

“You know, Dean, this really was one of the best date nights I’ve ever had, but I’m very glad that we get to finally leave this cesspit. What would you say to a few sexually adventurous triplets? Just as a future prospect. No pressure.” They come to the Impala and Dean pops the trunk open to toss in his duffle. Crowley just stands there by the passenger door with a dumb gleam in his eye.

“Twincest?” His face contorts in judgment, but then he figures with a shrug, “Yeah, okay, what the hell. But you’re still not joining, so don’t even think about it.”

“We’ll see about that,” he says, as Dean unlocks the doors and they climb in.

***

They’re only on the road for what feels like ten minutes before Crowley is already talking again.

“You know, Dean…” He hesitates, trying to find the words. “I realize in hindsight that my actions tonight may have been a bit inflammatory… I hope I didn’t strike a nerve.”

Dean slowly peels his eyes off the road to meet Crowley’s. He furrows his brows in confusion because an apology is the last thing he would ever expect from the guy that reminds everyone constantly that he’s the King of fucking Hell. “What are you tryin’ to be fuckin’ Sam right now?”

Crowley narrows his eyes. “No, why? Is it the roleplay thing? I can if you’d like, just let me grab a flannel--” 

He makes like he’s going for the backseat before Dean hits him in the arm with the back of his hand, the ghost of a smile playing around the corners of Dean’s mouth. “Knock it off! 

He relaxes back into the passenger seat again. “Did you mean it?” Crowley actually looks sincere for the first time in his life and Dean can’t figure out why.

“Mean what?”

“When you said I was your friend earlier,” he urges.

“Oh my god, what? Were you fuckin’ listening?”

“Now, I know for a fact you never said anything about listening!” 

Dean pointedly stares out the windshield, holding back the tremendous eye roll for fear of his eyes actually just rolling out of his head at this point. “Look this ain’t a Lifetime movie, okay? This ain’t Natural Born Killers, we’re not driving off into the friggin’ sunset together, think of it more like gettin’ the hell out of Dodge.”

It’s Crowley’s turn to roll his eyes. “Oh, Dean, your puns are so clever.”

A smile actually breaks free for the what feels like the first time tonight, but he hears that weird clicking shutter again. “Did you just take a fuckin’ picture of me?”

“Obviously,” he says, attention on his phone screen.

“Uh, why?” Dean juggles trying to glare at Crowley and watch the road at the same time.

“I have been the whole time. It’s for our Flickr album.”

“Our what?”

“Flickr, you blockhead. It’s titled ‘Crowley and Dean’s Summer of Love’. Remind me to send you the link.” He fiddles around with his phone a bit more before turning back to Dean. “You know, now that you’re the master of everything gay, maybe you’ll change your mind about me.”

Dean huffs another laugh, “In your dreams.”

“Well, no, not quite. In my dreams, I’ve always pegged you as the bottom. Words chosen carefully.” He gives a contented smirk at his own witty phrasing.

Dean doesn’t even know what to say to that anymore. “Yeah, well, what can I say? New year, new me.”

He’s going off on some tangent now about how cute Dean looks in one of the photos he took before Dean reaches over to turn the radio on to listen to literally anything else. It’s fucking Ozzy again and Dean throws his head back, barking out a laugh, as Crowley exclaims, “Oh, for fuck’s sake!” Dean turns the dial up even more just to spite him and to drown out his infernal bitching. In this moment, Dean can’t help, but laugh. He laughs so much he has to wipe tears from the corners of his eyes. This situation is all sorts of fucked up and he really can’t be bothered right now to think about it. It also feels like he’s in some weird, demonic version of the ‘Fuck, Marry, Kill’ game where he got weighed down with Crowley as his ball-and-chain and somehow the fucking and the killing have been left up to him too. But as much as it pains him to admit it, Crowley really isn’t all that bad sometimes.

And maybe Dean is still lying to himself a little bit, because Ozzy still kind of fucking rocks, but at least he’s trying and he’ll damn anyone that says otherwise.

**Author's Note:**

> All song titles mentioned (the title of the fic/chapter titles) are picked on purpose for their lyrical content. Ozzy songs really encapsulate demon!dean for me i guess. i'm also insane, probably.


End file.
